Happy to announce that I have officially published my first book titled HIS WORDS. HIS EMPIRE. HIS REIGN – now available on Amazon. Few words can truly describe the feeling – of being so raw and honest and vulnerable on paper – but that’s always been the beauty of poetry – it speaks for you and through you. Years of writing summarized in a few pages. Emotional roller-coasters and flowery sentences. Personification of the human soul and experience.
I saw fire latch onto his clothes as if it belonged to him. I saw smoke enter his lungs, denying him of life. I saw them throw petrol on his body. I saw his eyes intensify in pain as the fire grew. I saw his eyes tell a story no one listened to. I saw his body drop to the ground. I saw his hand reach out to the sky, as if heaven would open, and God would latch on to his soul, like fire did to his clothes. I saw his blood become one with the soil, as if it belonged there. I saw his body turn to ashes, except for the bones. I saw life and death in the singularity of a moment. I saw the police drive by, with sirens on their white Toyotas. I saw them salute the man who had started the beating. I heard the police say that was the rightful punishment.
For anyone that speaks against the government.
Piece inspired by: anyone who has fought for truth and freedom.
I know they segregated your mind to swag, hip-hop and culture. I know they taught you how to rap before you could read. I know your new album confirms your indoctrination. I know your high is not of God, but of the leaf. I know, deep down, that you believe. I know you lose sleep over the dreams you stopped chasing. I know the blood on your shirt means you pulled the trigger. Or is that from fighting the police? I know you sag your jeans as a metaphor. I know your self-esteem hangs much lower than that. I know your “drip” is an ocean of pretense. I know your “ice” is the element you traded your soul with. I know you know how to love a woman, but can’t afford to be seen as less of a man. I know they say black men make poor fathers. I know your father was hardly a man. How could he take care of two sons and his only daughter? I know you know, you can end the cycle. I know you know, that you can escape the prison bars of a limiting narrative. I know you know, because I am you.
To some, I am a man of charisma; the kind that stifles fear and electrifies the will.
To others, I am the biggest loser; the man with a balding sense of humour.
To the art of words, I am her brave Mister; the fool that tried to tame her and failed.
I do not claim that Poetry loves me in the same manner, but tis the love Shakespeare proclaimed.
A love affair with the sublime that only ends in one way: when the writer stops writing.
I was three when I first met my muse — my Juliette of poetry?
Sparks flew when she spoke in metaphors and I in broken vows and sentences.
I made a mockery of myself; what with the diaper and the lack of sophistication?
So I strengthened my acquisition with the world; I learnt the language of Men and Bots.
I went to pre-school.
I learnt to colour in between the lines to impress her. I was fervently in love with my muse, but I could not express her. I fell sick; my muse ignored me still.
From an early age to adolescent, I buried myself in television. I let the ambient box sing me to sleep. I let it erase my talents. I dragged through life and death — then back through life. I did things I would never trade my breath for — like learning to dance with both feet. The magic was missing. There was no thrill, no spunk.
If admitting that I cried means I’ll be stripped of my right to be a man, then set me free. I was revitalised of an energy I once knew; I was alive again. And I felt my muse blink.
Ever collapse to the sensation of being home after a long trip?
I felt the same; I felt the rush of belonging to something bigger than self — of belonging to Juliette.
I read more and she spoke a little louder. We dined over Jane Austen’s passages, laughed like children in Chuck Lorre’s ‘Vanity Cards’ and survived horrors in Stephen King’s ‘Nightmares and Dreamscapes’.
The more I marched over the terrains of literature, the closer I came to my muse.